She's Not There - Madison Marla (книги без сокращений .txt) 📗

68             

James Wilson couldn’t stay at work a minute longer once he knew that Jeff Denison’s death had hit the media. Elated, he headed north to his lake house, eager for the speed and release sledding gave him. The new, custom sled had been a great investment. He couldn’t get there fast enough to celebrate his victory by racing across Lake Winnebago.

The motor of the high-powered engine growling in the breeze, James pulled out onto the lake. He’d barely picked up speed when he realized there were so damn many ice-fishermen on the lake, whose shanties and trucks would encumber his ride.

Turning the sled, he pointed it in the direction of the trail.

69             

TJ had marked a deserted cul-de-sac where she’d made a habit of leaving her car when she watched Wilson. As Lisa drove into it, she saw it would be a perfect spot to leave the truck and trailer; they wouldn’t be visible from any of the nearby roads. Now she had to hope she made it to the trail before Wilson and in position on her snowmobile when he drove by. Her attack had to be a surprise; her sled wouldn’t be able to outrun his. The aerial map indicated a low rise adjacent to the trail not too far in from its inception near his home—an ideal spot to wait and get off a shot without being seen.

Last winter Paige had convinced Lisa to buy a new set of matching sleds to celebrate her graduation. Glad now she’d acquiesced, and grateful for the power of the new machine, Lisa drove one of the snowmobiles off the carrier and sped to the beginning of the trail. About a quarter of a mile in, she found the place where she planned on watching Wilson, a low hill next to the trail where she could wait hidden by a stand of pine trees.

Sitting on her snowmobile in the frigid air, the wait dragged on endlessly although not more than ten or fifteen minutes passed. Light snow showers began a steady fall over the area, icing the exposed areas of her face, sticking to the false beard and mustache she’d glued in place. The fat-man stuffing under the men’s hunting clothes she wore did little to keep her warm. The damp air seeped in, the insulation serving to maintain the cold against her body.

I have to stay focused, forget the discomfort. Lisa did a mental exercise, reviewing and visualizing the steps of a perfect shot. She was ready.

When the black sled with its gold detailing rounded the bend below the rise where Lisa waited, she had a nanosecond’s hesitation. There was no mistaking the custom sled, the rider wearing the coordinating suit he’d had on in TJ’s photos.

Lisa raised the rifle. She had him–James Wilson–in her sights. Like people whose lives flash in front of them the instant before death, the faces of Jeff, Danielle Ventura, and the missing women flickered in Lisa’s vision. She steadied the rifle and planted three shots into Wilson’s chest.

Sixteen-year-old Tommy Rennicke had split only a few sections of oak when he heard the shots. He dropped the ax and looked up, wondering who’d be shooting this time of day. The shots sounded like they came from a powerful gun. He didn’t think there was open season for anything warranting a weapon that size at this time of the year.

He looked toward the snowmobile trail. A sled driven by a big guy wearing a hunting jacket, with what looked like a rifle sticking out of it roared by on the trail, full tilt. Too far off to see much more, he couldn’t even be sure about the rifle. The guy was high-tailing it toward the beginning of the trail.

Tommy turned back to the woodpile and began to stack what he’d chopped when a thought came to him. The only other rider he’d seen on the trail was that asshole on the black, high-powered sled. He usually rode the trail at this time on weekday afternoons.

It’d started to snow, big flakes adding a thicker blanket to the foot or more of snow already on the ground. His mom wouldn’t be home for a while yet; he’d have time to snoop around. Slipping into his snowshoes, he set out for the trail.

70             

Heart pounding, Lisa drove her sled off the hill. Back on the trail, headed for the truck, she accelerated it to top speed. She couldn’t make herself look back. Above the roar of the engine, she didn’t hear the sound of Wilson’s sled crashing through pine trees, its motor buzzing in the quietly falling snow after it overturned.

Driving without lights was risky, but she couldn’t take a chance on being noticed. She’d seen someone chopping wood at a house she’d driven past, but felt confident he’d been too far away to see anything more than a sled speeding past. Within minutes she turned back onto the dead-end street where she’d left the truck.

She’d taken too many chances. But everything had gone as planned. She’d left the ramp down on the carrier and easily drove back up onto it in the falling snow. Securing the snowmobile next to its mate and starting the balky truck went a lot easier than the loading process.

Whatever Lisa imagined she would feel after shooting Wilson, it didn’t come close to the reality. She’d never have believed she’d be experiencing the elation of a job well done. A monster no longer roams free in my world—I’ve made sure of it.

Driving back to Oconomowoc, she felt sure the heady feeling wouldn’t last.

She had to get home quickly and call Eric and Shannon before they became concerned about her. At the moment she had only one concern–the person she’d seen chopping wood.

But what could he have seen? Her face hadn’t been visible under the helmet she’d been wearing. He would have seen nothing but an overweight man in hunting clothes driving a snowmobile. Speeding. Speeding, right after he’d heard shots. But he couldn’t have seen anything that would identify her. She’d had the foresight to smear the plates with paste, making it appear like frozen snow. The numbers on the truck and the sleds were indecipherable even if anyone had been close enough to read them.

The snow thickened, coming down faster. She’d take the back roads in order to miss the evening traffic on I-94. It was sure to be a mess in the heavy snow. She’d be home, showered and ready to leave for Eric’s before ten.

When Lisa pulled into Eric’s garage it was nearly ten. He stood waiting for her when she got out of the car with Phanny at her side. Tail wagging, the dog ran for him. Eric bent down and patted Phanny, rubbing her ears as she wriggled in delight at seeing him.

“How’s your headache?”

“The worst is over. Taking a nap really helped. Did you bring TJ here?”

“Yes, she’s here and down for the count; I gave her something to keep her sleeping through the night. And I called her sister—let her know what’s going on. There’s a pot of chicken soup on the stove if you’re hungry, or would you like something stronger?”

Chicken soup sounded surprisingly good. “Let’s start with the soup. I’m famished.” Lisa hadn’t eaten since her morning granola.

After she unpacked, she joined Eric, who’d put out two bowls of steaming soup and a plate of biscuits. Eric was a perceptive man; she’d have to be careful not to give him any cause for concern other than the headache she’d lied about.

“You waited for me. Thanks.”

He smiled, but she saw the pain in his dark eyes. “Sure.”

Eric and Jeff had become close. He probably didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts any more than she did.

Lisa sat next to him at the counter rather than across from him where he could observe her. “Did Maggie tell you and TJ anything?”

“Not really, but things got interesting after you left. Conlin showed up.”